Apr 16, 2014

nẹt một que diêm

Private EyeTo find clues where there are none,That's my job now, I said to theDictionary on my desk. The world beyondMy window has grown illegible,And so has the clock on the wall.I may strike a match to orient myselfIn the meantime, there's the heartStopping hush as the buildingEmpties, the elevators stop running,The grains of dust stay put.Hours of quiescent sleuthingBefore the Madonna with the mopShuffles down the long corridorTrying doorknobs, turning mine.That's just little old me sweatingIn the customer's chair, I'll say.Keep your nose out of it.I'm not closing up till he breaks.